


Silent Knight

by gardnerhill



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Feudalism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some have every word at their disposal. And some find other words to use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Knight

" _Eric and Enide_!" Madeleine called out.

" _Tristan and Isolde_!" Gwyn begged.

Sir Brian leaned back and discreetly spat a bit of gristle into the rushes on the floor. "Why do ladies always want romantic French ballads? Pah! Blair, give us Old Alfred!"

Sir Henry took a deep drink from the big winecup he shared with Brian and said, "I'd hear a good tale for May – a hunting song, a Robert Hode tale. Even that damned 'cuckoo' lay you've sung a hundred times before."

The handsome young knight to whom they spoke set down his eating knife and carefully wiped the grease from his lips before taking up the winecup he shared with the other two and Sir Daniel. The rich blue of his surcoat matched his twinkling eyes, framed by the gleaming cascade of his shoulder-length curly dark hair; silver rings sparkled in his ears. "Tis true, fair ladies, I have recited much to your liking, and now it is time your escorts heard what pleased them."

"Sir Blair, if they were to hear what truly pleased them it would be a conversation ill-fit for the table," Gwyn said, grinning at Henry.

All of them roared.

"Robert Hode, I think," Blair said, and began.

"There are twelve months in all the year,

As I hear many men say.

But the merriest month in all the year

Is the merry month of May..."

***

The song rolled along the table.

"If he slew as often as he sang we'd be the most peaceful kingdom in the land," the King said wryly. His duke laughed and the captain of the guard took a pinch of salt for his meat. "I would have more enemy helms from Blair, and fewer French songs. James, is he afraid to kill?"

The captain of the knights set down the winecup he shared with Duke Taggard, turning his eyes from the laughing, singing group down the table to face his liege. "No, sire. He fights well."

"He fights but he does not kill. What good does a knight do when he sends his enemy home alive, to remain a danger to his King?"

"Sire, Kincaid may rage and swear revenge," Taggard said, wise in the way of the human heart. "But no man will follow him into battle against Cascady again -- not after Blair unhorsed him, took his sword, and sent him back to his army naked except for an ass's hide wrapped around him – a man who'd killed a hundred men in combat. It's said Kincaid's own knights call him 'Donkeyskin' now."

The King snorted, amused despite himself. Taggart chuckled. James drank.

"Fear is a good weapon, sire," Taggard said. "Kincaid's men will stay away from a kingdom where knights can defeat their best fighters and don't even fear them enough to kill them. But if you want Kincaid's head, just send James to fetch it along with a basket of strawberries on his next patrol. That will make Kincaid's men very frightened."

Sir James did not look up from his meal at the compliment.

"What of it, James?" the King said in a cheerier mood. "Could you ride out tomorrow and bring back that bastard's head for the castle wall?"

"If you wish, sire," James said.

The King smiled, with more ease in his expression. "Not quite yet, I think. Perhaps young Blair has the right idea. A man fears ridicule worse than he fears his own death."

Laughter broke out again further down the table. Blair was reciting a poem now – a poem in the style of French epics such as Roland. But this one seemed to be about a King Donkeyskin and his final, tragic battle. Taggard listened and laughed. The King smiled as people whooped. James tossed a bone to a mastiff; he did not smile nor laugh, but his eyes never left the man in blue.

It was time for the evening entertainment; a harper was to recite the epic Battle of Maldon.

"By your leave, sire." James bowed and rose. The servant who took his plate salivated at the food still left upon the bread-trencher.

***

Bayard was well-kept and his coat gleamed from the groom's cloths; he snorted at the approach of his rider. James gave the destrier a turnip and rubbed his hand along the brown gleaming neck while the horse munched the treat; Bayard ate to a full belly for both of them.

James sat on a stool and drew his long sword. The blade was dark and pitted from constant use; the only gleaming parts were the edges and point. James tested it with his thumb, did not get cut, grunted and pulled out his whetstone. The warmth and peace of the stable, the musical ring of the steel as he drew the stone along the blade's edge, the good earthy smells of horse and hay and manure, suited him more than the smoky halls, bright lights and loud laughter of the court.

Lately it seemed that everything about the court hurt his eyes, or his nose, or his ears. The food was too greasy and salty and sat ill in his stomach; the wine was sour on his tongue. The guttering tallow candles stank badly. Even his clothing hurt when he put it on; the only garment that was a comfort was silk, and he couldn't wear a silk shirt into the lists. Perhaps he was ill, or dying. Perhaps that last long patrol, alone, had set him among ill humours.

There was one thing in the court that did not hurt him physically; one source of music and laughter that suited his ears, one display of bright blue that gave comfort to his eyes. That embodiment of beauty and wit and music satisfied James in a way that the greasy food and bitter wine did not.

Whistling grew louder as it approached the stables. "If thy bonde is ille,/Hold thy tongue stille," Blair caroled, not taking his own advice. "Hey, Lilith!" He produced a large carrot for his own mount, laughing and stroking her nose.

The ring of James' blade caught Blair's attention, and he saw the man seated between the stalls. Instantly he stood to attention. "Captain. I am at your service."

James didn't even look up, but shook his head and kept on with the blade and the stone. For some reason the thought of facing Blair here, alone, now hurt him; made his stomach even more queasy and his head light. He must be very ill.

"You're missing the harper. He's very good. I left for the privies, and stole a treat for my giantess." Blair looked at him. "You didn't eat much tonight."

He'd noticed? Surrounded by his gay companions and merry company, he'd noticed James?

"Are you well?"

James grunted in dismissal and continued to hone his sword. "Man fights better on an empty stomach."

"Then your server won't fight well tonight – she ate better than you did."

The image of little Meg brandishing an iron sword longer than her almost pulled a smile out of James.

"Some people become ill at ordinary things," Blair said. "One man swelled up and died from eating roast crab, and it wasn't poisoned. A child became ill from drinking milk. Is there something in the food that hurts you? Or is it something in the hall?"

Everything in the hall hurt him, all over. And one thing in the hall kept him from going mad with it all, and gave him enough ease to eat a little...

James shook his head and turned the big sword to work at the other blade. For a while it was so quiet in the stable that he thought Blair had left.

Then Blair's voice started up again. "There are some who say that a man's sword is a man's soul."

James looked at his blade – dark, spotted, dull-faced. Anger, hiding a deeper grief, rushed through him at the words. If this was what Blair thought of him...

Then the man was being insolent to his Captain. And the part of James that responded so eagerly to Blair turned his anger. Canting a look up at Blair's serious face, James lightly smacked the flat of his sword against his palm and looked pointedly toward the man's arse, implying the squire's punishment for insolence for such a comment.

Blair's sudden, honest laugh was good in his ears and on his heart. "Ah, but see how the blade matches the man! Forbidding and stern, yes. And straight and true. And shining bright where it counts the most."

Blair might as well have pierced James through the heart as say those words. James did not dare to look at him through the sweet pain. He only thought that Blair need never kill – he would always be able to fell his opponent with his words and his wit, as easily as he'd defeated the most feared knight in Cascady.

"Well, I'd best get back or they'll start singing without me. Lilith's had her share of the feast. Captain, did I really do all right in that fight with Kincaid?" All in a rush. Fear, worry. The mummer's mask had fallen off the bright young knight. "I was sure that this would do more good than just making one more dead king and another blood feud, that's why I did that, it wasn't because I was afraid, I didn't see how killing him would do any good!"

James looked up at the handsome young man. Blair wanted **words** from _him_?

No. No. Blair wanted reassurance from him. Reassurance and words weren't the same things.

Meeting the deep blue of the eyes that matched the surcoat, James nodded firmly, and turned his attention back to his dirk.

More quiet. Then a heartfelt, "Thank you, Captain."

James grunted, his eyes on his work, his heart beating fast. He heard Blair leave, and was able to hear him until he returned to the hall.

Back to the work. Back to the steady, pleasant ring of good steel and the whickering of horses and the smell of hay and horse and the sweet smell of –

Sweet?

James sniffed. Yes, there was horse and hay and manure. And something sweet.

He sniffed his way around to the beam where Blair had been sitting.

It was a small round loaf of bread, warm and sweet and smelling wonderful.

And his appetite came back and howled like a wolf.

Empty-stomached fighters be damned. James seized the bread and tore into it, and every mouthful was a joy. And the crust of the bread tasted, ever so faintly, of the way Blair's skin had smelled. Had the apple tasted as sweet to Adam?

_If this is the fruit of temptation, sweet Jesu, then with joy will I leave Paradise._

***

It was chilly outside the stable, close and warm inside. No good knight trusted the care of his weapons or his steed to others.

"God give good den, Captain."

Busy loading Bayard for his patrol, James grunted an acknowledgement of the morning greeting.

Blair started to stroke Lilith with a grooming brush, clucking at the big mare. "Sweet girl, I found a gift outside my door this morning. A fur coverlet! The fur has the same thickness and color of a bear killed last fall in the forest by our own Captain of the Guard, and for which he received the pelt as tribute."

And about which Blair had made his tablemates roar that evening with the epic, "Sir Bruin's Bane." It would have been worth hunting and killing the beast simply to hear the funniest thing recited that Martinmas.

Blair continued to speak to Lilith. "Perhaps someone has overheard me complaining of the cold, and has responded with a generous gift to a subordinate."

James shrugged as he lifted Bayard's hooves to check for stones. "It itches me."

"After all this time? It must be riddled with very lazy fleas, if they haven't bothered you until now. You should have told them that their master was dead. No matter, Sir James; I will raise the poor orphaned creatures in a God-fearing manner."

James turned his head close to Bayard's neck as once again a smile threatened the corners of his mouth. An effusive display of gratitude from the beautiful and witty young man would have made him feel ill at ease; here, now, he felt nothing but at ease with Blair.

"Sir Henry has questioned my skill at riding, so I am to meet him at the lists for a display of how well we control our mounts before we begin our watch." Blair set foot to stirrup and mounted Lilith. "God speed you on your journey, Captain."

James continued his ministrations to Bayard and did not watch Blair leave. That morning he himself set out to patrol the border that separated Cascady from Kincaid's lands, which would take nearly a full week.

Early in the morning of the second day, not far from the border, he approached a small clump of forest that hemmed in the path.

And then suddenly he heard armor clinking ahead. And the forest rushed at him. He stiffened and pulled at Bayard's reins as the forest loomed before him, seeming to swallow him whole. The clinking was louder; two shadowy figures appeared in the forest before him, and became became two men on horseback. It was as if he was but five feet from the men; he could see the sun-device on their shields and sword-hilts that marked them as Kincaid's men. He could see their hard, scarred faces. He could *hear* their mail clink and their horses blow. Yet the men spoke and acted as if they could not see nor hear James.

"How far is the castle from here?" he heard one man say.

"We'll be there at sext tomorrow," the other replied. "I went there once to fight in a tournament, and know the grounds well enough. It should be an easy matter to find that blue bastard and lie in wait for him. We'll be back in the great hall by Friday to present his head to Kincaid, and he'll reward us both."

"Let's wrap his head in a donkey's skin first," his companion said, and both men laughed.

Sir James saw red. He straightened, lowered his spear. Bayard sensed the change and tensed, waiting for the first touch of his master's heels to charge the threat to the kingdom.

And then, James saw blue. Everything – the path, the forest, the two enemies, the countryside – was as if bathed in moonlight.

A beast prowled before him on the path, between him and the other men. It was a pard, jet-black from nose to tail-tip, with eyes like two glowing yellow torches. Bewitched, James stared at the magnificent cat; this, after all he'd seen and heard, was the proof that he was going mad.

"You are not mad," the pard said, eyes on his face. "You are riding toward your fate."

Another creature appeared on the path - a wolf, with blue eyes and gray shaggy fur. The pard strode toward the wolf, but instead of attacking it the great cat touched its head to the wolf's head. Both vanished in a blaze of white light.

James started and blinked. The blue light was gone. The talking pard and the wolf were gone. The forest was once again ahead of him. There was no sign of two men on horses.

It was a dream, a waking dream. A God-fearing man would recognize such fearful sights as witchcraft and shun them, denying what they whispered to his heart.

James lifted his spear and merely touched Bayard with his heels, which spurred the mount into a canter. He headed toward the forest and into it. And as he made his way through the brush, he heard it – the faint clinking of mail.

Not a dream.

Was it witchcraft that gave him this power? Was it part of the pain he felt in the loud, smoky hall, the illness he got from the food and wine? If this was witchcraft he should shun it and everything it whispered to him...

And if he shunned it, he would have missed the two men on their way to Cascady. He would have returned to the castle at week's end – when Blair might have been two days dead.

A pard's snarl curled James' lips into something that looked like a smile as he neared the two riders.

The men saw him. They turned to face him and their spears lowered. James knew they were enemies even before their sunrise-emblem shields came up.

They would kill Blair, those Godless, cowardly--

James screamed like a tiger and clapped in his spurs.

***

That Friday at nones, James returned from his patrol. He presented two swords to the King and said only, "Two intruders at the border, Sire. Routed." He ate a capon and drank only water as Blair and Sir Henry reported a peaceful patch of borderland from their own, shorter patrol.

That night after the feast, Blair found a helmet lying at his door. Its crest was marked with a sunrise.

***

James watched the men and boys at practice, taking on the worst sword-fighters himself. Unlike his predecessor, the ironfisted captain Sir John, he did not beat the slow or bad fighters but simply mirrored their own fighting, showing them where their faults left them open to a blow by making the same mistakes and letting the men strike him, and then displaying the correct way to parry that same blow; amazingly, the pained looks and rueful laughs of the knights and squires were followed by the men improving faster and learning better than the silent, sullen flogged men under Sir John. It was such a painless, easy way to learn and to teach that it was surely a sin.

When he'd sent the latest man off to spar with a companion, he heard his title called by the voice that held him spellbound at table. Blair approached, still carrying his longbow and quiver from his practice at the butts. Dressed in dark green like a forester, his eyes sparkled the blue of a summer day. "Captain! I have news for you!"

James straightened and nodded. It could not be ill news – not with that bright expression.

"Sir James," Blair continued in a quieter voice, although the shouts and clangs of sword-fighters did a good job of covering conversations. "I have found something in a book that may speak of an illness like yours!"

A book? This gay beautiful man could read and write as well as recite ballads? James stared into those amazing eyes. His heart was pounding hard, from the exertion, the news, and the nearness of the younger knight.

When practice was over Blair had James enter his chambers. James stared in disbelief – not one, but **three** books lay on the table. The bearskin was draped over the bed; the enemy helm hung on a cloak-hook. The table was littered with scraps of parchment, quills, and a clay inkpot. A vielle leaned against an oak chair.

Blair pulled open a thick leatherbound tome and reverently turned the calfskin pages. "This is a journal kept by Jakob of Sanzburg, a scholarly Jew who lived in Germany 100 years ago. I bought this in Abraham's quill shop. No taverns or trinkets for me until Martinmas – every penny is in this book!"

James started, and Blair grinned. Then James looked back at the close, beautiful scrollwork on the pages. If he could defy common wisdom by training his men without flogging them, Blair could risk a heavy fine by the church for doing business with a Jew.

"Jakob was a man fascinated by all that was strange and unusual in mankind. He made it his life's work to seek out such men and record their lives. "Look here, Sir James!" Blair pointed to one large piece of scrollwork atop one page. "'The Sentinels,' it says here. And here he speaks of a man who could smell his wife's bread baking, and find it among a hundred loaves; another man who could hear the animals in the woods so well he never failed to find game when he hunted. One man saw enemies approaching his town from a day's march away, and reported them to his King." Blair shrugged sadly. "The King barricaded the town and defeated the enemy soldiers – and then had that poor man burnt as a witch."

James nodded. Kings.

"Now in this book Jakob writes that he thought that such men all had the same touch. A special kind of madness that affected one of the five wits. One man – the hunter – had good ears and a good nose; perhaps more than one can carry this madness." Blair's eyes met James', who had been intent on the face reading the scribbles with such ease. "And perhaps, this madness can touch all five wits at once."

James felt sick to his stomach. Madness... Surely he'd been touched, if such impossibly ordinary things hurt him and he could hear and see men a long gallop away.

A man had already been burned for possessing this madness. James had witnessed a heretic-burning as a child, and had been whipped by his father for crying at it; to this day he would never forget the screams of the man chained to the stake, the stench of burnt flesh, the sizzling sound, the sight of the charred remains, or the hymns of praise led by the priest even as the man had writhed and shrieked in the flames. Would the same fate befall him? Or would he be cast out to roam the countryside with a bell like a leper, warning all decent folk away from him while he slept in ditches and lived on rubbish?

A warm strong hand rested upon his and squeezed hard; only then did James notice that his hands had been shaking. "It is a terrible thing to receive such a powerful blessing from God," Blair said solemnly.

A blessing? He was going mad, and it was a *blessing*?

James yanked his hand away, glaring at Blair, and strode out of the man's room.

***

_Blair stood at the butts, firing arrow after arrow. They all fell wide of the mark, in some cases missing the butt altogether. He walked over to Blair's target and addressed it; he pulled one of the five arrows from his quiver, slowly and methodically nocking the arrow and raising his longbow, drawing back to his chin, showing Blair the correct form and posture that would improve the young man's archery._

_The day vanished and blue moonlight filled the field. The jet-black pard appeared before him once again, prowling between him and the target. "You are not mad," the pard said. "You are blessed. It is your fate."_

_Angry, he brought the arrow down to aim at the great cat. It was the fault of this devil-beast, somehow._

_The pard sprang away, and he fired after it. But he heard not the tearing-cloth snarl of a wounded pard, but the distressed yelp of a wounded wolf._

_The pard was gone. The blue moonlight was gone. He saw no wolf. Instead, he saw Blair, clutching his arrow buried in his stomach, a look of pain on his face. Then he crumpled._

_He rushed forward and caught the younger knight before he fell to the ground. He looked up and around, mute with grief. He knew what a death-wound looked like. And he himself had snuffed that brilliant light, had ended that unceasing flow of clever, beautiful words; now it was his fate to live in darkness, and in silence._

***

It was not yet lauds, but James arose and dressed, and headed to the hall to plan the assignments of duty for the week. It was merely his attention to duty that made him backtrack along the corridor, listening to the sound sleep of those not on night-watch. All were accounted for, breathing steadily and hearts beating in the rhythm of sleep – David, Henry, Blair, Brian, Daniel. All was well.

Not until James was at the hall table arranging the markers he used to designate the different knights under his command did he stop to think that before his "madness" had struck he would not have been able to hear his mens' heartbeats and sleeping breaths through heavy oaken doors and stone walls.

***

Blair and Brian returned to the castle with two sober young squires, and reported the deaths of four bandits at the forest's edge where they'd been raiding nearby serfs. James made his own cold, curt report on his own bandit-quelling patrol with Henry and two more of the young men for their training. He'd seen the bandage Blair wore on his right arm.

At table, when the young men furthest down the table grinned to hear their exploits against the bandits recited as an epic poem by their wounded commander, James buried his face in his ale pot, becoming angrier and angrier. The narrative was poetical, but clear. If the song was true, the squires had made mistakes in their fighting which had led to Blair being unprotected long enough for one of the bastards to take a knife to him. Normal mistakes made by young men in their first blood-fight, mistakes he would have tolerated if Eric and Richard had made them on his own patrol. He heard Blair's song, and wanted to take the flat of his sword to Donal and Coll until they bled. It was his right; he was their captain. Instead, he left after the meal.

Another sound he craved; the steady, reassuring clank of his own mail as he inspected every link, oiling the places where rust threatened. His mail too was dull and unattractive; would Blair also say it was strong and sturdy, fiercely protective of everything within its grasp?

He heard Blair approach his rooms, and his heart quickened. Angrily he tried to stop hearing so much. The madness would swallow him whole, and then he was surely lost. "Come," he barked at the knock.

Blair carried the thick book under his left arm. The sight of the young knight with his right arm in a sling drove the captain's eyes down, fiercely intent upon his work. He thought of the squires and ground his teeth. He'd work them tomorrow till they sweated blood, until they never again made those errors in fighting. He'd drill them until they hated him as much as he'd hated Sir John.

"Captain, you've been angry as a kicked beehive all evening. Are your wits plaguing you again?"

A head-shake. Mail clinked. His armor had to be whole and sound. Next week the King would send him and Taggard, as well as most of the other men, to the bay, to unload the stores of steel ingots from the ship to the forges and smithies of Cascady. They would be loaded with gold on the way to the bay, and loaded with weapons-grade steel on the way back. Blair's arm injury would leave him behind with the squires and the ladies.

"Captain. I stand chastised. 'Tis only right that I bear this wound, for the fault in my fighting."

James' head shot up and he glared at Blair, shaking his head. In truth, he'd been angry from the moment Blair had ridden off with his patrol in the opposite direction from James' two days ago.

It was not only his wits that were becoming afflicted with madness, but also his heart. Every day, it became harder and harder to have Blair out of his sight or away from him physically. This last patrol was too much. It was the proof that James must leave Cascady, go far away and never return, lest his madness hurt his land and his king. His dream came back to him again and again, threatening something even more dear.

Blair moved to the table and sat opposite his captain, setting the thick book on the table one-handed, awkwardly. He thumbed open the pages and continued to speak. "I've been reading Jakob's journal entry, 'The Sentinels.' Now some of the fellows who had the madness in one or more wits led wretched lives, it is true. But many of them lived very good lives. One was a scout, and one a fine jeweler whose work was so intricate it has never been equalled in modern times. One man was hired as a food-taster for a noble with many enemies in court – he could *smell* poison in a spiced dish, and his charge was never harmed. Others were gifted hunters, or unbeatable bowmen. If this change of the wits is madness, it seemed that Jakob found many who lived with the madness and prospered. This 'madness' in these men truly became a blessing."

James kept his head down, tightening a few loose rings.

"Jakob noticed that in every case where a man with the madness did well, he had someone with him – a friend, a brother, an apprentice, in one case even a wife – who stayed with that man and protected him at times when his madness overwhelmed him. The man, in turn, shared his good fortune with that friend. It was the solitary men – the men with no friends, no wives, no lady-loves, no family – who were overwhelmed and came to grief."

James kept his eyes firmly upon his armor.

"This makes my way clear. I know what I must do now to help you, Sir James."

James' hands stilled. His head lifted to stare into those amazing eyes, dark in the candlelight of his room. That strong, beautiful face, that solid body, that quick mind and clever tongue.

  
For a long moment Blair matched the intensity of that gaze. Then, he grinned. "Why, I must make my rounds of the ladies while you are away, and find you a suitable wife, of course!"

It was as if an iron bar had landed on James' heart. He felt his soul withering into a husk. He stared down into the rows of steel rings and felt them bind tight around him. What else could he expect? A bit of bread, a book, they meant nothing, they were courtesies. Blair was young, bright, beautiful, witty, learned – everything the Captain of the Guard was not.

Blair's voice continued, its merry tone like torture now in James' ears. "A man like you doesn't need a simpering damsel, pouting for you to recite pretty words and present her with gifts. I think you'd like a good stout wench who knows what a man needs – a woman who can cook, bear your children, mend your clothes and welcome you into her arms as shamelessly as a whore."

He imagined life with a wife, children springing up around him, all of them a proper shield between him and the poetic knight. Would that stop the terrible pain he felt every time Blair left his sight these days? The terrible pain he felt right now?

Blair stayed longer, reading other pages out of the book dealing with more amusing tales of human oddities. He read no more out of the Sentinels entry that night. The stories were funny, but James had not the slightest urge to smile. Somehow he got through the evening. Somehow, his mail got mended.

And somehow, he managed to correct the fighting faults of both Donal and Coll the next day without murdering either lad.

***

The preliminary bandit patrol had done its work; the journey to the bay was uneventful. James winced and averted his face a mile before and a mile after they passed two of his captured outlaws still rotting on their roadside gibbets. Their show of force kept avaricious eyes off the caskets of gold and upon their gleaming weapons. The weather was beautiful, warm and bright; the land sparkled with early summer growth. A perfect day in the merry month of May.

Serfs plowing their fields bowed to the Duke and the knights as they passed, as much in gratitude for killing the robbers as out of duty and homage to their social betters. The knights bivouacked in the open as if an army on the march and ate the provisions they brought. James had trained his men thus; a serf's life was short and cruel enough, he'd said curtly, without having his stores and house and women ransacked by the nobles of his own country. Sir John's men had shouldered their way into farmhouses, demanded food of the sullen ox-faced peasants, taken the men's beds and taken the stone-faced women. James had ended all that.

The Captain's methods had borne good fruit. Just as his gentler training had made better fighters, his gentler way with the peasants had opened their tight fists. The very fact that James' knights did not take their food brought goodwives to the road with fresh loaves and jugs of ale, some last winter apples, a few eggs; one fellow even offered a squawking chicken for the Duke's supper, which was accepted. None of the farmers was fool enough to offer his house as shelter to so many men – but the peasant girls working in the field smiled at the knights they favored and cast eyes at them, now that they were in no fear of being taken against their will. Perhaps one of those stout girls would make James forget his madness – forget Blair – for a few moments of passion... He focused on the road ahead, and did not look at the girls again. The glorious day sat in his heart like a stone.

The bay was a thriving port town, full of sailors and ships and a babel of languages; the smell of the sea and of fish. Now it was the Duke's time to work, and Taggard spent an hour or two in a tavern called The Jug with the captain of the ship and the harbormaster trading papers and writs, discussing exchange rates and negotiating a harbor fee reduction.

The men who were set at liberty enjoyed the sights and sounds of the town.

James was given two hours, and had made up his mind to take a quick nap when he smelled paradise. Disbelieving his own nose, he followed the elusive scent in and around the shops and booths set up around the wharf. He finally found the booth he'd sought, and stared, again in disbelief, at what was laid out for sale. His mouth watered; his nostrils quivered. He asked the price, winced, felt the silver in his bag, began to step away from the display... and he remembered a loaf of bread in a stable. He bought one, wrapped it carefully, and put it in his bag where his money had been. He headed back to the tavern, giddy, head light as a young swain's, heart aching with grief. He was a fool, and he'd be laughed at for a week if his men ever found out what he'd just done.

The tavern's fish soup was excellent and their beds were good. But James kept a close watch on the gold, and slept only when Brian and Daniel took over from him. When something on the edge of his hearing awoke him, he rose soundlessly and seized one scuttling human rat before it could was close enough for the gold's watchers to hear. Since the would-be thief had not reached the gold, James merely sliced off one ear and sent the bleeding creature squeaking back to his hole. No other prowlers disturbed the watch.

The march back was slower, the long wooden wagon laden with the amount of steel two asses' packs full of gold could buy, the sea-smell only an hour out of his nose, when the moonlight struck James again.

***

_"If you ride this pace but a minute more your choice is made!"_

_It was the pard who shouted that to him even as the great cat ran through the moonlit forest, squalling. Arrows flew all around him. The pard ran and ran and ran, heedless of the arrows landing in its back and rump and paws, and broke out into the clearing._

_An ass stood in the moonlit clearing, ears back, eyes rolling, braying like a war-horn. At its feet lay a crumpled, wounded wolf, one forepaw useless, eyes full of pain. The ass reared back to drive its hooves into the wolf's unprotected skull –_

***

And the road was clear and bright and quiet save for the jingling of mail and the blowing of horses. Ordinary sounds. The sounds of ordinary men, quietly alert but in high spirits for the coming summer.

And all he had to do to choose this ordinary life was to stay at this pace for another minute.

The arrow. The wolf's cry. Blair, crumpling in his arms. Wait but a minute and it would be done.

"Your Grace, punish me for this when I am done," James said calmly.

And the startled Taggard, hearing more words than he'd heard from James the entire trip, stared in disbelief as the stern, sober Captain of the Guard cast off his helmet and spurred Bayard into a full forward gallop. The men shouted; the horses whinnied. In a minute man and horse were past the horizon.

***

The castle was a day and a half 's march away. Not even a good stout war-horse could maintain this speed. It was a dream, a foolish dream of a madman.

James cast off his mail shirt and started unbuckling Bayard's face-plate even as the horse thundered down the road. The lighter the load, the longer the horse would run.

Fortunately it was May, and spring giddiness combined with the need for the great steed to stretch his legs after days of sober, steady trotting; Bayard flew like the Pegasus from Blair's stories.

Blair–

He smelled nothing, heard nothing but a gentle May day. But he turned Bayard off the road and thundered through a field, tearing up the plowed land behind him even as he pulled more heavy steel plates off of himself and his horse. Grimly he thought that there would be no difficulty in tracing his progress; they need only follow the scattered armor.

Every piece of armor and protective gear he cast away from man and horse both. But he lost neither sword nor bow; the quiver of arrows still bounced along strapped to the saddle.

_Straight and true. And shining bright where it counts the most._

Bayard stumbled and James dug in his bare heels. His spurs were gone, along with his boots; he now wore only the light linen tunic and hose that normally lay beneath his padding and armor. A naked madman on a naked horse, riding as if the Devil were at their tails.

They crashed through the forest canopy and wove through the trees, brush crackling at their legs. Gorse and thorn tore at both; James and Bayard bled freely at the legs from the gashes before they crashed out of the clump of trees and once again tore through flat lands, toward the rise where the castle of Cascady lay.

Bayard frothed, began to slow. James drew his sword and smacked his destrier across the rump as hard as he could with the flat, goading the screaming horse into another burst of speed. Every time Bayard tried to slow, James struck him again, harder, until the horse's rear was a mass of bleeding gashes. A cruelty he'd never shown to his men or to serfs he now unleashed upon his beloved steed.

The castle loomed. Bayard stumbled and crashed. James leaped free of the dying animal, stopping only to yank the quiver off the saddle strap, and he ran.

He heard the hoarse shouts of men and the clangs of weapons before he smelled the blood. The castle stood firm; arrows flew from the slits, picking off the few men attempting to breach the wall. Even in his pounding run, James smiled grimly. Sir John would have thought him mad for teaching women the art of archery, and for supplying Madeline and Gwyn and their friends with boys' longbows for practice after the men were done with the field.

The pard snarled at his feet, and he halted. The pard vanished. The battle continued ahead, loud as ever.

James unslung the strung bow, nocked an arrow, froze. It was madness.

Then let the madness choose.

He closed his eyes, drew, turned, lifted, turned, heard something, stopped, and let fly in the direction of the sound. Then he took up his sword and ran, leaving the quiver and bow where he'd dropped them.

A skirmish, a bloody skirmish, lay between him and the castle. No more than twenty men. Men in sunrise armor, with shields and helmets and swords and spears. Two of them swung around. They gaped at the bleeding, naked man brandishing a dull dark sword – and then they gaped forever, heads rolling and blood gouting as James roared and swung.

The running pard was gone from his mind; all that filled it now was fighting and killing where he stood. The ass, the wolf, all gone. Only fight to the castle, fight and give the King one more soldier between ...

Cries of "The King! The King is dead!" filled the field. The cries of terror grew louder, swelled among the men in sunrise livery, unable to touch the roaring berserker in their midst. They fled, screaming.

"The King! The King is dead!" continued. Then the cries grew fainter. And fainter. Only bodies and friendly soldiers remained.

"Captain! Captain!"

He opened his eyes and stared into the horrified eyes of Eric. The lad was bleeding and covered with sweat and dirt, but there was blood on his blade too.

"The King?" he said hoarsely.

"The King lives."

But he'd heard the cries...

James stared past Eric.

An arrow – his own, from the fletching – stuck up before him. It stuck out of the back of a red-haired man's neck. The man was stretched prone on the field.

James stumbled forward and stood, looking, as his squire ran forward and turned the body over.

It was Kincaid. The single arrow James had fired into the air, blind, had pierced the King's throat and killed him instantly. A sword was still clutched in his gauntleted hands.

"He was about to drive it into an opponent," Eric said. "Look at the position of his hands."

"James! Sir James! James!"

The voice, frantic and angry as it was, was balm in the knight's wounds. Weariness finally filling him, he lifted his heavy head, blinking open his eyes, to see the blood-spattered mail and bloodied bright sword, eyes like the summer sky under matted, bloody hair, and a right arm firmly bound against his body.

He knew who'd been a second from dying on Kincaid's blade just as his arrow flew home.

He toppled like an uprooted oak. Blair caught him on the way down.

***

The great hall served as the infirmary for the few wounded, and the dead lay in state until they could be buried properly. The rest of the returning knights had routed the fleeing remnants of Kincaid's men and now patrolled the field, returning the arms to their rightful place. James felt a pang when he saw that young Donal lay among the dead.

Kincaid hadn't been able to muster up much of an army for his revenge; the squires and women and the wounded Blair had done a fine job of keeping them back. Even if Blair had died at Kincaid's hands, Cascady would have held firm until the knights returned from their errand.

"My left-handed swordsmanship needs a good deal of work, Captain," Blair said, joining James on his inspection of the damage done. "But I felled one bastard before Kincaid struck me down. I hee-hawed at him, and that made him so angry he just stood and roared at me before he raised his sword. And then, pht!" Blair indicated the arrow going through Kincaid's throat. "I think his land has finally had enough of us."

James thought of the images he had seen on the road. If he'd rested for a second – if he'd had pity on Bayard – Blair would be lying by Donal now. He would live, in pain, if he wed and bred, and stayed away from the bright young knight. But he would not survive the pain of losing Blair forever.

He looked at the leather pouch he'd retrieved from Bayard's corpse. Absurdly, it had weathered the loss of armor and gear intact. It was empty now.

"And in all the excitement of preparing for our battle, I'm afraid I haven't started talking to the ladies of the court yet," Blair said sadly. "I'll have to rest up a bit, and the women will have to stop counting enemy skulls first." He smiled ruefully. "And the King will want to discipline you for your break from the march, and for riding poor Bayard to death. He is a gracious man – I'm sure he'll let your wounds heal before he orders your flogging."

James nodded. He was calm now, at peace.

They were at Blair's door.

"Good evening, Captain," Blair said, and went in.

And James listened, with the intensity of a pard scenting prey. He heard the rustle of cloth, smelled the sweet smell, and heard the gasp Blair made. Then another sound, with tears behind it.

***

With the knights returned and the damage repaired, all sat at table once more, the ladies cooing and fawning over the injuries to the fighters or exclaiming in joy over trinkets their sweethearts had bought for them at the bay, James sat stiffly by the King and across from Taggard, still aching from his wounds (a few swords and one stray arrow had done some damage to the berserker man before Kincaid's men had fled). But he smelled the lingering sweetness about Blair; he was carrying it with him.

"Don't think your heroism will save you from your punishment, James," the King growled. "Though damme if I can understand how you knew before everyone else returning."

"Sire, James killed Kincaid and struck terror in the remaining knights," Taggard said. "If it is madness, it's a damned useful madness."

"Sire, if I may." Blair had spoken, standing to face the King. "I wish to give you something, and to ask for a favor in return."

"What do you wish to give me?" the King asked, face like stone. James was afraid. No one could fathom the mind of a King, who could thank a man for saving his life by having him burnt at the stake.

"Only this."

And the entire table gasped as Blair lifted his hand out of his pocket and set a shining bright ball before the King.

It was the orange James had bought for Blair.

"It was a gift from a great heart," Blair said as people looked amazed at the thing. "I would ask for a favor, if you accept this gift."

The King stared at the luscious exotic fruit, and picked it up. "What is this favor?" he said, smelling the sweet skin.

"Sire. Do not have Captain Sir James punished for his broken discipline. He broke rank and rode only because he sensed that you needed his aid, and that a second of hesitation would be too late. He killed Kincaid and saved my life."

"Done," said the King, and set his fingernails into the peel.

James stared, nose and tongue flooded with the taste of the peeling fruit flying in the air like mist.

"And now, a new song, I think," Blair said, sitting down. "We have had enough of war, let us sing of love."

And he began:

"O poor gaudy pie,

Wherefore do ye sigh

And evermore cry, Oh?"

Why, for all of my words,

Will the king of the birds

Never say yea or say no?"

It was a love song, a new love song. The words told of the magpie, gaudy and clever, who had fallen in love with the stern forbidding eagle, and how humbled the smaller bird felt in the presence of the great warrior.

James leaned forward and split his capon in two, eating hungrily for the first time in weeks, and quaffed deeply. The dogs whined in vain for a scrap.

***

That night there was nothing at Blair's door but James. He met Blair's eyes, and his own were at peace.

Blair smiled. "Sweet Sir James. I was wrong. You are able to give beautiful gifts and speak beautiful words. What fool cannot tell that a prized rug is a word, and a foeman's helmet is a word, and a fruit that costs more than a book is a word, and that the words all say the same thing?"

And with no further words of his own, Blair took James by the hand, and led him into the world of the poet.

**Author's Note:**

> This story first appeared in the fanzine _Warriors 3_ in 2003.


End file.
